Francis Meyrick

Jeremy stood stiffly before McAllister’s desk.
Beside him, Owen too stood to attention. More or less. The atmosphere in the office was tense.
McAllister looked up from the report he had been reading, and studied the two men. He sat back, and folded his finger tips together under his chin. When he spoke, it was disconcertingly quietly.
“A fine performance, gentlemen. ”
Jeremy grit his teeth.
“You, Lieutenant Armstrong, have made engineering and aeronautical history… ”
It was not a compliment.
“Firstly, the engineering side. Tell me, when you were in your spiral dive through the cloud, did you close the throttle? ”
Jeremy knew what was coming.
“No, Sir “.
McAllister smiled thinly.
“So it seems. I am told that, judging from the state of your engine mount and engine internals, it is a miracle that your engine did not depart the airframe in flight, or that your engine did not simply melt. In other words, it was scrap. Squadron Leader Matherson writes to tell me it is now a lively source of debate as to what rpm your engine actually achieved. It is thought somewhere in the order of three thousand rpm, as opposed to cruise rpm of fifteen hundred… ”
McAllister’s face was expressive of his feelings.
“Not good enough, Armstrong. ”
Jeremy swallowed.
“No, Sir. ”
McAllister studied the smartly turned out young airman, standing stiffly to attention, and compared it with Owen’s casual slouch, and stained attire. Above all, he resented the glare of defiance in Owen’s stare.
An idea crossed his mind. He would turn the tables on Owen. But first he had to deal with the inquiry.
He addressed Armstrong, not unkindly.
“Do you know why your engine over speeded? ”
Jeremy answered truthfully.
“I do now, Sir. The high airspeed in the dive working on the propeller caused the engine to over rev, Sir. ”
McAllister nodded.
“You fully understand the need to retard the throttle promptly in high speed dives? ”
“Yes, Sir. ”
There was a pause. McAllister was beginning to enjoy himself. He would be very reasonable and understanding to the young airman. As for Owen…
He continued:
“Secondly, the aeronautical side. The damage to your upper wing sustained in flight again is a source of astonishment. Squadron Leader Matherson writes that the two forward cabane struts had in fact both parted company with the top wing attachment points. The center section box spar had cracked wide open. Severe damage had occurred right along the top wing, including the main wing struts. This had actually caused the leading edge to lift in flight. Astonishingly, you managed to retain control of the aircraft and return to an airfield… ”
McAllister paused. Where Armstrong was concerned, should he choose ‘Crucifixion’ or ‘Beatification’? The choice was his. There were plenty of grounds to lambast Armstrong. But to what point? The lad looked miserable enough already. And God knew, he could do with some airmen that respected him. No. He made his decision. He would crucify that rebel Owen. In front of Armstrong. Tear him off a strip. Show him. As for Armstrong… he would be understanding and magnanimous…

“…This was quite a feat of skill. It was a shame that having arrived at Champ Moutons, you then proceeded to land downwind… ”
Something of the humor registered with McAllister, and he enjoyed the look of amazement that was creeping into Owen’s face. It was satisfying to see…
“So I think it’s probably safe to say that that is a beginner’s mistake you will never make again. We’ll put it down to the stress of the moment…
Have you anything to say? ”
Jeremy, still too ill at ease to savor the relief beginning to arrive at the gallop, stammered wearily:
“I’m sorry, Sir, I had oil all over my goggles, and I guess when I took them off, I… ”
But McAllister waved it away.
“Forget it. You have learned a lot. I expect you to demonstrate that in the coming weeks. I would like this squadron to be proud of you. ”
It seemed a fitting note to end that one on.
“Yes, Sir. ”
Now for Owen…

“As for you, Mr Owen, I feel most strongly that you have shown yourself lacking in leadership skills. ”
The red flush that started spreading across Owen’s face was delightful to watch.
McAllister continued as coldly as he could.
“You must understand that this squadron has placed you in a position of responsibility as a flight leader. I expect you therefore to take to heart those duties. Clearly, there are areas of performance and knowledge in which your wingman was… lacking. I have to therefore tell you I expect you to rectify those deficiencies. ”
He paused, grinning privately to himself, studying Owen’s suppressed rage.
“Any questions? ”
Owen had.
“Sir, if I am to be responsible for my pilots in the way you suggest, then I will need time off from front line duty to address those areas which need attention. That will mean flights away from here to the west, where we can practice dogfighting skills free from interruption and unpleasant surprises. I will need at least… ”
But McAllister held up his hand peremptorily.
“Out of the question! You know the pressure we are under. Granted, it is not as bad as last March and April, but we still cannot afford days off. It is vital to keep the squadron up to strength. Sorry, but no can do. ”
Owen said nothing. He seemed to be staring straight ahead, and having difficulties breathing. His jaw was set dangerously.

McAllister dismissed them. As they left the building, Jeremy wanted to speak, but Owen stomped off towards the mess. Jeremy wavered, and then decided to go to his room, and think things out.

* * *

An hour or so later, the mess contained the usual number of lounging, reading, billiard playing, smoking and gossiping pilots.
When the figure of Jeremy appeared from behind the barracks, heading across in the direction of the mess,a voice announced:
“Hey-up! Here comes teacher’s pet! ”
There was a murmur.
When Jeremy entered, he was at once struck by the odd silence, and complete lack of greeting. He had been getting to know the others. Greenhall was the other section leader, and the most experienced man. Three pilots belonged to his flight, and were known as the ‘three little piggies’; Pinky, Perky, and Porky. The names had stuck, as they were so extraordinary descriptive. They tended to sit together, and indulged in a joint, mono-syllabic, ‘animal-noise commentary’, which Jeremy found hard to follow. Pinky was thin and morose, Perky was disgustingly cheerful all the time, and Porky -naturally- was corpulent and shoveled down other people’s leftovers. Jeremy had enjoyed a long and earnest conversation with Pinky the night before.
But this time everybody was busy, and none met his eye.
He felt strangely excluded, and it hurt.

He headed over to Owen, who sat studiously engrossed in a newspaper. There was an awkward silence, with Jeremy standing there, not knowing how to start.
“Dave? ”
An answering grunt came from behind the newspaper.
Jeremy debated how to start, and looked up to heaven for inspiration. He clenched his lips, and then just decided to go for it.
“I don’t understand what happened in there. All I know is… it was my fault I lost sight of the formation… ”
Several heads looked up slowly.
“I can’t see how you can be blamed for that. And… as for getting lost in cloud… my fault again. The downwind landing at Champ-les-Moutons… my stupid fault again. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry you got chewed out over it… ”
Owen remained impassive. Nobody else spoke.
“So… I think I’ve come in on something going on between you and McAllister… I don’t understand what it is, and I’m sorry… that I screwed up. ”
He finished weakly. Nobody spoke. Zero reaction.
Jeremy turned to walk out. He reached the door, and paused, his hand uncertainly on the handle.
Then he walked out.

Baines cleared his throat. Owen looked up. Baines winked at him, grinning broadly:
“You can’t say fairer than that! ”
“Oink-oink-oink! ” from the three little piggies sounded their approval.

* * *

Two more patrols came and went without combat. On the first, a two seater was spotted and chased. But enemy aircraft had appeared in the distance, and Owen had called it off. On the second, a dogfight in the distance had been observed, with seemingly a dozen machines whirling around in a small space of sky. Owen had speeded off to help, but arrived at the very end. Jeremy had seen one aircraft go down trailing black smoke, and another flutter down strangely, disappearing from sight as Jeremy concentrated furiously on shadowing Owen’s every move.
Jeremy had gotten as far as testing his guns that time, and he now knew it was only a matter of time before he fired in earnest. The thought at once frightened and elated him, and, in his usual seriousness, he tried to analyze the emotional paradox.

Thus, that night in the mess, a conversation had ensued in which Jeremy had unwisely queried unspoken holy issues. What was it like to fight? To kill? Why were they fighting?
What was the purpose of it all? How did they all feel about it? The sardonic expressions had eventually silenced him. The others had sung ‘Rule Britannia’ with gusto, and he had felt a fool.
Was he a bolshevik? Somebody wanted to know.
He had become embarrassed, and left for bed early.

* * *

The following day, Jeremy learned that they were to escort an RE8 on a photographic mission. Something told him he would be fighting before the day was over.
Greenhall, the other section leader would be up as well with his three little piggies. That alone made seven machines flying top cover.
McAllister too was making one of his increasingly rare flights that day, with two newcomers, Patterson and Digsby. That made ten machines, and sounded impressive to Jeremy.
He communicated his thoughts to Baines.
“Ten machines! Quite a force! “, but Baines seemed unimpressed.
He pulled a face, and Jeremy looked surprised.
“More like seven “, Baines grunted, and would not be drawn further.
A few minutes later, McAllister was the first man off the ground, with Patterson and Digsby in ragged pursuit. Digsby hauled his machine off a fraction too soon, and it wallowed sickeningly for a second. A disapproving “Beeeeeeeh “, which sounded like three sheep with bellyache, came from the three little piggies. Jeremy looked around, and decided to buttonhole Perky, who was the most approachable Piggy.
“I say Perky, what did Baines mean when he said ‘more like seven’? ”
The sound of three donkeys braying answered him, and he wondered if that meant he was being a dumb ass.
Only Perky would assist further, and motioned with his head to the departing formation. “See that lot? Count them out. ”
Jeremy protested:
“But he’s flying top cover! ”
The braying was, if anything, more mocking.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Owen and Greenhall’s formations got airborne, and climbed to six thousand and twelve thousand feet respectively. It was a hazy day, with high cloud absorbing a lot of sunlight.
Anti-aircraft bursts ahead soon showed where the lines were, and Owen led them straight to where the action was. Ahead, the RE8 could just be made out, very low, starting its photographic run. Two ominous dots could be seen falling from the sky towards the RE8; but Jeremy noticed that, although Owen steered a descending course that would intercept the two German aircraft, he spent a lot of time searching the sky above. Jeremy tried to search as well, but found himself extremely busy watching the two Hun machines as well as Owen.
Mentally, he clicked off the odds. Three against two. Owen and Baines knew exactly what they were doing, whereas Jeremy did not, but it nonetheless seemed pretty good.
Still they raced down, and he realized the Germans would reach the RE8 first. He could see that ship’s rear gunner firing at his attackers. Then, suddenly, they had arrived, and at two thousand feet Owen was aiming straight for a red nosed Albatros that was harassing the RE8. Jeremy followed, and it seemed to him a collision was inevitable. Owen’s machine rolled hard left, and Jeremy was forced to break right. The Albatros whizzed between the two of them. Jeremy continued the right turn, so steeply that he felt almost giddy, and found himself above a turning machine with black crosses.
He fired briefly, realizing this was his first shooting in earnest, and missed hopelessly. The machine disappeared, and he looked for Owen. He saw what looked to be Owen pursuing an Albatros, and turned to follow, only to have to take violent evasive action as something whistled past his left wing tip. He stared, recognizing Owen, who was waving madly. Jeremy turned to follow, but his speed was slower, and by the time he had accelerated, Owen’s machine was disappearing in the distance.

From then on in, the battle dissolved into a series of frantic images, one cascading after the other. An SE5 was being chased and fired at by an Albatros. Jeremy saw his chance, turned and dived, and latched onto the tail of the Albatros. All the details stood out incredibly clearly: the horizontal tail plane that seemed to curve forward too far, the long fin, the green camouflage -spinach color, Jeremy thought – and the pilot’s shoulders and head, everything loomed large. Jeremy fired, noting with quiet amazement that his bullets were raking through the German aircraft. He saw the German whip his head around, and thought the German had seen him. Suddenly, the Albatros left the SE5, and rocketed vertically upwards. Jeremy, surprised, started to follow, but he had never before pulled up so steeply. His airspeed fell away, and, perplexed, he watched the Albatros out climbing him. He pushed forward on the stick. A sudden feeling of weightlessness mesmerized him, and the aircraft seemed to respond sluggishly. Then it fell forward horribly, and Jeremy realized he had been more vertical than he had thought. He was slow, in a diving attitude, picking up speed, craning around, looking for the spinach Albatros…

Bullets were flying around him, and a horrible cracking, splintering noise made him look first at his starboard wing strut, which had pieces flying off it, and only then over his shoulder. A silhouette behind him was bobbing about, with sparks appearing around its nose. Jeremy screamed into a right hand turn, and the bullets stopped coming. He craned back over his shoulders, and could see the silhouette still there, following him. Where was Owen? He cast a glance around, and was amazed to catch a brief glimpse of three aircraft in formation pointing straight at the ground. He couldn’t tell who they were.
That staccato, coldly metallic sound was back again.

Taca-taca-taca-taca…

At the same time that he sensed he had inadvertently rolled off a bit of bank, the bullets started to rip through his wings again. He decided on impulse to haul into a left hand turn, reversing his turn. It was a mistake. The increase in juddering and shaking, and the strange noise the bullets made ripping through his fabric, increased markedly. He decided that had been a definite faux pas.

I’m not doing that again…

He tightened up the left turn as hard as he could, and snatched a look over his left shoulder. His harness constrained him, and he cursed, wishing he had not tightened the shoulder straps so hard. Out of the very corner of his eye, he could just make out a wing tip.

Still there! Now what do I do?

On an impulse, he pulled the stick hard back, and zoomed upwards. The world fell away, and he looked across at the horizon, which was now in an unusual place. His eyes glanced in at the airspeed indicator, and watched the speed drop away. It did so very rapidly. He felt he was not traveling quite vertically, but falling over to the left a bit. Where was his enemy? He found himself booting in full left rudder, and half turning, half falling, he discovered his nose pointing vertically downwards again.
What an extraordinary caper… and where’s that Hun!?
Something appeared to his left, and he found himself staring at Owen’s machine, green pennants fluttering from the wing struts. Owen was gesticulating wildly, and, as they both pulled out of the dive at the bottom, Jeremy slotted in behind his leader once more, more than relieved.
A machine was going down, smoke and flames pouring from it. The pilot was waving his arms frantically. Two more machines raced past, one behind the other. Jeremy noticed in passing, in a detached way, that the machine behind wore black crosses. Owen banked sharply right, and Jeremy had to close his throttle for a second, to avoid a collision. Then he was dropping back fast, and he had to smack open his throttle once more.

A yellow shape floated into view, and Owen was firing at it. It was a Fokker triplane, with green patches on the wings and fuselage. It went down into a screaming dive, and Owen followed. The triplane, the pilot’s head bobbing back and forth, turned hard right, and Owen lost him.

Taca-taca-taca-taca…

Somebody was shooting at them again. Owen’s head bobbed around, and he pulled up hard. Jeremy followed, and then lost him as Owen did something strange. He seemed to roll away upside down, and Jeremy could only stare in amazement.

Taca-taca-taca-taca...

With no time to ponder on what had happened, Jeremy hauled round into a tight right hand turn again. The shooting stopped, but he knew without looking the machine was still there. He pulled as hard as he could, and his SE5 stood on a wing tip. It made it easier for him to see his foe. Sure enough, an all red triplane was pursuing him. He could see the pilot staring across at him. But as long as he kept turning, the German could not get a clean shot at him. The illusion lasted for several seconds, before Jeremy saw to his horror that the German was out turning him, and slowly catching up.

Never try and out turn a triplane…

Who was it had said that? Perky? Baines? But they were right. He tried to pull the turn even tighter, but only succeeded in losing more speed. He realized he had lost a lot of height as well…

Now what do I do???

Desperate, he half rolled out of the turn, and dived for speed. He was heading straight for a little river…

* * *

Owen cursed again, and wished Greenhall would hurry up.
Having saved the RE8, which was trying to beetle off home, Owen was only too keenly aware that the four approaching dots racing in from the east, would swing the odds around heavily in the other side’s favor. Meanwhile he couldn’t spot Greenhall, and was having to worry both about protecting the RE8 and Jeremy Armstrong.
He chased one Hun away from the RE8’s tail, just in time to see the other Albatros expertly throw off Baines, and then half loop and roll around to latch onto Jeremy’s tail.
There was nothing else for it, and, one eye anxiously on the approaching formation, Owen left the RE8, hoping Baines would take over, and raced to help his charge.
The four approaching dots were a minute away now, and Owen gritted his teeth, knowing too well that things were turning ugly. He needed to drag Jeremy away from this, so that they could fly a fighting retreat, safeguarding the two-seater as well as escaping a superior force. It would soon be six against three, and Armstrong was just a pup.
Where the hell was Greenhall?
Then he gasped, as he saw two sets of dots about to clash six thousand feet above him. A set of four dots coming in from the west -Greenhall-, and… five, no, six from the south-east, out of the rising sun.
He sighed. It was going to be a hard day…

* * *

Greenhall had watched Owen’s section dive to protect the camera ship, and now he studied the sky with a concentration bordering on the desperate. He didn’t like it. The two machines diving on the RE8 would have seen Owen’s three ship formation diving to intercept.
What have you lot got up your sleeves?
Then he saw, way off in the east, low and fast, four more enemy machines racing to the scene. He waggled his wings, and dived. Without having to check over his shoulder, he knew the three little piggies were following him down.
For a long time, he studied the four ship formation, and knew by their squat appearance that they must be tri-planes. Four triplanes and two albatrosses versus five SE5’s. If that was the final odds… He looked up and around, but could see nothing. Behind him, Pinky saw his leader searching the sky above, and thought grimly:
“My thoughts exactly, leader. Where’s their top cover? “
He kept half an eye on Owen in the dive, but tried hard to search above, staring into the sun until his eyes streamed. But it was Porky who suddenly fired his guns in warning, waggled his wings, and pointed furiously.
Owen and Pinky saw them simultaneously: six more Fokker D.V’s diving out of the sun, straight at them.
Owen whistled through his teeth, and calculated desperately. Those smart cookies must have been hiding very high in the sun, up at eighteen thousand feet or so. He was outnumbered six to four, which didn’t unduly alarm him, knowing the experience of his flight, but Owen faced odds of six to three, and Armstrong was of little use.
Greenhall decided that at all costs he had to get as close as he could to Owen before turning to face the D.V.’s. This would hand the advantage to them, but there was little he could do about that.
Down… down… they were through 9000 feet, flying wires howling, and he would soon have to turn and face his attackers. He could see the RE8 desperately trying to escape, and Owen’s flight doing a good job in fighting off the two Albatrosses. He wondered fleetingly where McAllister was with his two machines. He started to look, and then gave up, a feeling of bitter resignation creeping in.

At 7000 feet, the two formations clashed, and a Fokker D.III. immediately went spinning down on fire, black smoke erupting out in an astonishingly large, dirty cloud. The pilot, with no parachute, tried desperately to protect himself against the flames, until he breathed in burning vapor, which destroyed the inside of his lungs. He was dead before his machine hit the ground, showering sparks and debris over a wide area.
Greenhall tried to dive a little longer than he should, to get closer to Owen’s scrap, but a series of astonishingly hard hammer blows somewhere beneath the cockpit forced him to swerve into a tight turn. He spotted his antagonist, and concentrated on seeing if he could out turn him.
Owen would have to wait…

* * *

Pinky was determined to nail the D.III. on Perky’s tail, and pulled a colossal load to heave himself around in time. Even so, he saw the gap opening up, and slammed the throttle open. His engine coughed heart stoppingly, and then picked up again. He was not going to catch the German. Where were the others?
Ah, there…

Something incredibly hard hit him in the back of the head. It hurt unbelievably, and his first feeling was one of surprise, then indignation.
How dare they…!?
There was no pain.
He had to do something, urgently. What was it again?
He puzzled about it, and then something funny seemed to be happening to his vision. He was suddenly a long way back, looking through a tunnel with black sides.
Something was happening, and it could be important.
Funny thing…

He was unaware of the sinister shape that followed his aircraft, and continued to rake his machine with bullets, long after Pinky had died.

* * *

Jeremy twisted and turned, and found himself descending below five hundred feet. His snatched glances showed his enemy was still on his tail, and there was no sign of anybody else coming to help.
He was on his own.
At least he was heading west. Every so often bullets would rattle around, but mostly Jeremy was able to avoid too much damage by continually weaving. The drawback however was that his enemy was getting closer all the time, and they were also getting lower.
As another hail of bullets noisily passed through the lower left wing, Jeremy suddenly decided he had had enough. Hauling back on the stick, his machine soared skywards. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him the triplane following. As Jeremy hit the vertical, he opened the throttle wide, and this extended his vertical line another two hundred feet. Then he was slowing down so much, he didn’t know what to do. He craned around, looking for the triplane. He was still there. Jeremy now seemed to be hanging from his propeller.
Now what!?
His mind was a blank. As the whole machine seemed to start sliding backwards, he weakly pushed the stick forward, expecting the nose to wallow forward and down, as it had previously. To his horror, the exact opposite happened, and the aircraft seemed to fall sickeningly over backwards. Jeremy screamed, feeling for one second that he was falling out of the aircraft. The nose, having been pointed at the sky, swung viciously through the horizon until it pointed straight down. He opened the throttle again, and to his amazement found himself not far from the triplane’s tail. He skidded himself into position whilst pulling out of the dive, and found the triplane floating smack into his sights…

Jeremy didn’t know whether he was shocked or elated. Squeezing the trigger, he observed his bullets cutting through the enemy. He saw the pilot half looking back, and then appear to jerk in his seat. Less than twenty seconds later, the triplane smashed into the ground spectacularly, and exploded immediately. Pieces flew in all directions, and one wheel rolled along the ground, bouncing horribly and unnaturally over the rough surface.

Horrified, Jeremy could only stare open mouthed.

He had scored his first kill…

F.M.
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on March 8, 2008, 1:12 pm

Sleepily, she stretched a tanned, smooth, well shaped leg out from under the bedclothes, and yawned voluptuously. The room was cold, but it worried her not the least. Tough, as well as beautiful, she would soon be flouting convention, and galloping around the bridle paths of Paris, training to become an even better horsewoman.
She retrieved her leg under the bedclothes, and snuggled cozily for a few more minutes. What would today bring?
Horses and men. Horses and men….

She giggled to herself, and pictured the coming day’s events. She knew, with that quiet certainty of youth, that she cut a dashing figure. Men’s heads turned all the time. Emancipated females doing their own thing both offended and fascinated them. They drank in her long, raven black hair billowing out behind her, her supple figure, her tight fitting riding suit, and, above all, her ample, bouncing breasts…
Genevieve enjoyed the attention. She and her friends refused to ride side saddle, the way some ladies elegantly and uncomfortably stepped about the place. Instead they rode like demons and dressed like the men. Riding boots, and tight breeches. She enjoyed it when she saw lust in older men’s eyes. She enjoyed flaunting her body, and enjoyed teasing and tormenting the opposite sex. Even the disapproving looks from other women were mostly tinged with envy, and Genevieve and her female horse loving friends had long since shed their inhibitions. But winding up the men took first place in terms of enjoyment.

Maybe that imbecile from the Rue Victor Hugo would be waiting for her again this morning. A tall, somewhat gangly youth, he would be fiddling around with his reins, pretending he had just come out to exercise. He owned a ridiculous looking asthmatic piebald, that looked as if her mother had been raped by a carthorse.
He would fall in beside her, trotting along, trying to breath in and out as well as chat her up. She would flash him a wide, encouraging smile, and he would practically swoon at her feet. Then, quietly, she would increase the pace. The piebald would cope all right at first, until she increased the pace just a little further. Too proud by far to ask her to slow down, he would try and match her speed. But his pony’s breath would soon start becoming more labored, and the chat line would amuse her by its increasing -rhythmic- desperation. She would accelerate just a lick more, and, at the moment his chat really started to dry up, she would launch off on some wholly irrelevant, casual subject. She would move as fast as possible, consistent with coincidentally portraying herself and her mare as quite fresh and wholly unaffected by the exercise.
She had learned by experience to forecast at what stage he gave up. He would quite suddenly announce he had arrived ‘at his turning’ (a different one each time), bid her farewell, and swing off up a different path. Once, through a gap in the trees, she had unexpectedly caught a glimpse of him just after he had departed. He had been leaning up against a tree, bent over forward, studying his horse’s foaming nostrils with concern. She had laughed about it for ages with Henri…

Henri. She giggled at the thought of her serious lover, and writhed her hips in spontaneous longing. The weight of the bedclothes massaged her pubic hair, and her buttocks enjoyed the firm feel of the mattress. A deep sigh of desire, almost a groan, welled up in her throat, and her right hand slid satisfyingly across her flat stomach. She felt her navel, and then her hand slid further down…
She enjoyed Henri. He was big, and a real gentleman. Pity about his job. Nothing more exciting than a bank clerk.
The job meant everything to him, however, and he expected to make promotion soon. Maybe he would be a bank manager one day. That would be the greatest achievement to Henri.
She could see him enjoying that role, his whole being dedicated to being the perfect bank manager. That would suit Henri well. And Papa approved of Henri…

Papa… She frowned slightly, and her right hand stopped the satisfying massage. They had argued again, quite fiercely, yesterday. What was it about this time?
Oh, yes. About going on summer holidays. To the country estate.

She sighed quietly, yawned, and stretched out luxuriously in all directions, willing her body to respond to the morning. One arm surfaced above the bedclothes, noticed the temperature, but stuck it out. One eyelid flickered half open, but shut again immediately. This would not do… The other arm appeared, and joined its companion, slapping the coverings for emphasis. She was going to get up.

The unfamiliar bellow of hungry cattle reached her ears, and pierced the torpor of her mind. Her eyes snapped open, and took in an old, worn, ornamental ceiling which was unfamiliar. At the same time, her mind brought back her whereabouts, and the reason for her violent quarrel with her father.
She was at the country farm, for her summer vacation.
Despite her wishes to the contrary, her father had insisted that she accompany him to their ‘second home’.
Ah, merde! C’est pas vrai…

Disappointment.
She would have much preferred to stay in Paris, despite the summer heat and filth. There were men in Paris, Henri amongst them, there was the riding school, her female friends, there was the opera, dancing, and all night parties. There was the war, and all the gallant young men with their uniforms and decorations, and their incredible stories. She had been introduced to Charles Nungesser, the hero of the French Air Force, with his scarred face and irresistible smile. He had regaled her with the story of his escape from behind the German lines, stealing a staff car by shooting the occupants, and racing pell-mell across no-man’s land. The salons loved him, and he partied as hard as he fought in the sky.
Oh,if only…!
Here in the country there was nothing but cows and scornful old men and women, who said little but who disapproved with their eyes. She had argued vehemently to stay on in Paris, stating that she could manage quite well on her own with the maid. After all, she was nineteen… Her father had wanted none of it, and, ignoring all her protestations, had dragged her off to the country. And so, here they were, hundreds of miles from Paris, on the old farm…

The farm yard noises increased, and Genevieve heard the unmistakable country tones of Madame Pegoud shouting at the old dog.
Madame Pegoud… Genevieve laughed. Madame Pegoud got older and more senile every year. She also seemed to become more deaf. Her father had employed the old woman and her husband some decades before to look after the large country estate. Monsieur Pegoud had since died, but Madame Pegoud stubbornly clung to life. With the aid of a man from the village, who cycled up every day, she continued to run the place, much to Genevieve’s father’s annoyance. He wished the old crow would die, so he could appoint a younger person, but, with the loyalty of the master to an old servant, he would never replace her until she passed away. His vocal displeasure whenever the subject of Madame Pegoud cropped up, camouflaged his decency, and Genevieve was amused by his outrage at the old lady’s fortitude. She laughed at his customary description of her: ‘that old crow’s mother’. Despite that she knew his true feelings.

She bounced out of bed, and stood, naked, in front of the mirror. Some lazy exercises followed, until, her body awakened, she swung arms and hips more vigorously. It was good to be alive. She studied her profile in the mirror, and thought of Nungesser. He had been drunk, surrounded by females, but, when introduced to her, he had fallen theatrically on one knee, and kissed her hand, gently. To whoops of delight from the audience, he had then, rising to his feet, put an arm around her waist, another around her shoulders, and tipped her backwards off her feet. The movement had been so polished, so smooth, that she had barely had time for surprise, before he had kissed her long and deliciously, full on the lips.
She had struggled for a brief second, and then relaxed and enjoyed it, to screams of delight from her female friends, and roars of approval from the men.
Only Nungesser could get away with that behavior all the time, anywhere and everywhere. He was a hero, and had been shot down and injured a few months later. But he was flying and fighting again now, and the papers were full of his exploits.

She raised an arm, and absently felt her breasts. She turned sideways, and studied her profile in the mirror. Her breasts could be fuller. They were well developed, and firm, but could do with growing just a little more.
She drew her breath in, and studied her breasts again, and her flat stomach.
Charles Nungesser. What would it be like to go to sleep in those arms, and make love to that hunk of a man?
She shut her eyes, and imagined his broad shoulders and hairy chest bearing down upon her, thrusting his manhood inside her…
It had to be better than that wimp Marcel. She frowned, and started to dress, slowly, studying her anatomy thoughtfully in the mirror. The tennis club had been full of big men, who desired her, but, in surrendering her virginity to the studious Marcel, she had picked a shy character, with whom she felt safe. Who would have stopped at any stage, if she had so desired. Who had penetrated, ejaculated disappointingly quickly, and then cried. Still, it had been good. She had learned so much, and enjoyed her own body as much as his. It had been a voyage of discovery, made none the less pleasant by her slightly weak companion.
She continued to dress, slowly, remembering back. They had met secretly on a regular basis after that first time, becoming more and more relaxed about their bodies and their bodily desires. But she had soon tired of him, and looked for pastures new. She had broken it off with him, and Marcel had cried again, begging her not to leave. In the end she had scolded him, and been quite cruel. He had written her pathetic letters, and, on one occasion, thrown stones up at her window in the middle of the night. She had gone down to see him, slipping quietly past her father’s bedroom door, more to prevent him from breaking the window than from any desire to really see him. He had announced he was joining the army to fight for France, and she had indulged him in his desire for one last night of passion. Sneaking him out in the morning had been a hair raising experience, and she had been glad to see him turn the corner of the alley at the back. The relief had been immense, and thought provoking. Never again would she give herself to a slavish man…

She finished dressing, and skipped down the stairs. Outside, the cool morning was pleasant and fresh.
She attended to her new horse, which her father had bought her to make up for her missing out on a summer in Paris. Soon she was saddling up. It was a novelty having a horse in the country as well her mare in Paris. Passing out through the ironwork gate, she wondered which way to go. She decided to head for the old village. Ten minutes took her there, and she passed through in two. Nothing stirred, and the only sign of life was a dog barking. Her horse’s steps echoed off the houses, and she turned up the hill leading north, suddenly acutely aware of how much she missed Paris. A long country road wound through some fields and small woods, and she trotted for several miles. A country path crossed the road, leading into some woods, and on an impulse she turned and followed it, delighting for a while in the changed scenery. She skipped over fallen branches, and followed the twists and turns of the path, taking care to avoid knurled roots and rabbit holes. Deeper and deeper she went, until in the end she arrived at a small clearing, with, curiously, an old abandoned plough.
She lay down on the grass, and picked a long stem of grass. Chewing it thoughtfully, she contemplated Life.

She was young. She was beautiful. Her father was rich.
She had friends. The only trouble was that her friends were all in Paris. That was a problem. But…
She rolled over onto her stomach, and rested her chin on her fists. The light played through the leaves, and myriad patches of light danced lustily with the shadows.
Charles Nungesser…
Why had she so enjoyed her few minutes with that man? Why had the sheer amorous cheek of his action not offended her? Why did she think of him, and search the newspapers for reports of his actions? The latest report was that he had been challenged to single combat by the Germans, in a message dropped onto his airfield in a bottle. He had gone to the rendez-vous, and been jumped by five German aircraft. However, he had not run, but stayed and fought. He had shot down two, and the others had fled. The newspapers had enjoyed a field day.
It was the sort of raw heroism that people looked for in times of war. And she had lain in that man’s arms, and kissed him…
She felt herself getting hot in a strange, uncomfortable way, and pushed the memory away. She was thinking too much about Nungesser. She looked around the clearing for distraction, and focussed on the old plough. How many horses had spent their life dragging that contraption through the soil of France? How many farm hands had spent the day sweating and stumbling along behind?
It was impossible to know. But now it lay there, a discarded wreck, the wood rotting and the metal rusting. Strange. Strange how things passed. People passed by as well.
With a pang she thought of her dead mother, and tears stung her eyes. She missed her mother intensely. The consolation offered to her by her father had infuriated her at the time: “Mama is in heaven “.
Mama is in heaven…
She had wanted to scream: “Why? What is she doing there? Why is she not here? If God is so good, why doesn’t he send her back? ”
But she had said nothing, and retired to her room, and cried.

She stood up, and walked over to the old plough, and examined it. She ran her hand along the old timber, and marveled at the feel of it. That had once been a tree. But now it was dead. Although it still existed.
She turned away, gazing up at the sky. Mama was in heaven, was she? Was that where heaven was?
She lowered her gaze to the ground, and studied the green grass.

With an ache, she realized she was lonely. Very, very lonely. She wanted a man like Charles Nungesser, who would be a hero, not a bank clerk. Who would be big and rough, and yet gentle and kind. Who would hold her close, and make love to her, and make her feel wanted and special and beautiful.

The silence oppressed her, she turned, and rode back the way she had come.

F.M.

The next three patrols were eventful in that Jeremy learned a lot, but no enemy machines came near. He discovered the anti-aircraft artillery in earnest, which seemed to him to vary enormously from one location to another. He had been told not to worry about it, and this advice he tried earnestly to follow. But sometimes it was difficult, especially when the hot, glowing, malevolent shell bursts started to creep closer as the gunners got the range and height. Then it seemed as if he had personal enemies on the ground, who wished to see Jeremy Armstrong dead. It was an unreal sensation. He had thought about being fired upon for weeks before he took off from Aix-en-Chapelle.
Now it had happened, life would never quite be the same. He had been fired upon by an enemy he would never see face to face, and it set him thinking. How did the gunners feel about their task? About him? Was it something they did in hot blood, the excitement of battle lighting their eyes? Or did it become just a dull, noisy routine, an irksome task, with ‘nothing personal’ in it?
He wondered about it, and one night in the mess, he asked the question off Baines.
“Baines, on the subject of archie… Do you reckon people could just end up firing up at us because they’re ordered to do so? Meaning, without malice as it were? ”
Several heads turned, studied Jeremy, and looked at each other. Jeremy, a little flustered, found himself stammering as he tried to explain.
“I mean… if you’re banging shells up into the sky all day long, surely it just becomes boring, like anything else. Surely it becomes a routine…? With the odd success merely lifting the tedium for a short while? ”
Baines put his paper down, and inquired in a mock serious tone:
“Jeremy, old fruit, how much have you been drinking? ”
There was a titter. Jeremy, flushed, would have done well to drop the subject, but a certain innate stubbornness drove him to pursue his somewhat esoteric logic.
“Well… I’m just saying… I don’t think it’s possible to feel hatred all day long, every day, week in, week out. Not when you’re doing a boring job like that. ”
There was some restless stirring, and odd sounding coughs. Baines disappeared behind his paper again, and his voice drifted out lazily.
“Well, when they shoot your little balls off… ”
There was a titter.
“… that might just color your judgment. ”
Jeremy dropped the subject.

The next day found them up at eleven thousand feet, patrolling the lines. It was cloudy and raining intermittently below them, with an almost unbroken layer of clouds above and below. They had taken off into a howling gale, so it had seemed to Jeremy, which reduced their ground run to a mere thirty or forty yards. Now they occasionally passed through the edges of clouds, although on the whole Owen seemed to be striving hard to fly around them. Then rain would spatter Jeremy’s windscreen, and he marveled at the spectacle of horizontal pencil lines whistling past and over the wings. The lines glistened, and some of them splattered against the curved leading edges of the wings.
There, water seemed to end up trapped, especially when the rain was heavier, and it sploshed and slopped around in a curious jelly-like substance, that changed its shape continuously, yet stubbornly remained stationary. Other parts of the wing, such as just behind the struts, also had these odd apparitions, that wriggled and changed size continuously, and Jeremy realized the swirling currents of airflow effectively trapped them.
Whilst watching this phenomenon with fascination, Jeremy was also trying hard to keep a watchful eye out, and got carried away with searching the sky. When he tried to refocus on his leader’s machine, he blinked in astonishment. The piece of sky where Owen should be was empty. He was so surprised that he looked across at what Baines thought of it. It seemed to take his brain a long time to grapple with the observation that Baines was also gone. Suddenly, his stomach lurched, his pulse started racing, and he found himself staring in open mouthed horror around the wild sky. He was alone! The repeated warnings from Owen not to lose sight, and the dire threats of what would happen if he did, rang loudly through his brain, and he started frantically searching around, and moving the aircraft from side to side to see below. A gray cloud approached him dead ahead, and he had to make a decision: over, or under. He decided to climb over, and found himself in sudden bright sunlight. Looking up, he saw the sun bursting brilliantly through a large crack, and small bits of blue sky. He redoubled his efforts to try and locate his formation, with special emphasis behind him. He knew any attack would come from the rear, and he fishtailed despairingly, craning around, hoping to find friends, and fearing to find a foe.
For one second he caught a glimpse of a machine, and he strained to get a better view and recognize it. So it was that he crashed straight into a dense cloud, peering frantically over his shoulder. He looked back in his direction of travel just in time to realize what was happening, and just too late to take effective avoiding action. The frantic left stick and rudder input threw him over in a steep bank, but then all reference disappeared. Everywhere he looked he saw only cloud and water pencil lines. It was as if he had become trapped in a strange white and gray world, which seemed to grow progressively darker…

* * *

Owen, with Baines behind him, watched Jeremy from a distance, closing as fast as he could, which was not very quickly. They had been cruising along at quite a lick when he had seen the lone two seater Rumpler, which looked as if it was returning from a photographic sortie. He had stalked it steadily for ten minutes, whilst trying to spot escort cover above, if indeed there was one. Once he thought he had seen a wing, but when he had blinked, it had gone from view. Nonetheless, he had waited his chance, until the Rumpler had flown below a very large black cloud. Knowing any top cover would be unsighted for at least several minutes, he pounced. He rocked his wings, pointed at the Rumpler, and was comfortably established in the dive, before he discovered Jeremy was not with them. Glancing back up he was just in time to see Jeremy’s lone SE5 sailing on serenely in a straight line, before it disappeared from sight.
Swearing furiously, he had broken off the attack, but by the time they had regained height, they were half a mile behind.
Now the chase was on, and a grim faced Owen mouthed furious thoughts across the divide.

* * *

Jeremy knew he had been in a screaming left turn, and after a moment’s horror, during which strange things were happening, he decided to roll out of the turn. For a glorious second, the hope entered him that he could fly the aircraft by instinct, pretending he could still see the ground below. But by the time he had imagined he was level again, the strange sensations were only getting worse.
The noise… everything sounded too loud. At the same time he was being thrown over hard against the left side of the cockpit. What was most puzzling though was the way everything seemed to have stopped. It was as if he was not traveling forward at all, but stationary in the sky.
The absurd thought crossed his mind that maybe he could just unstrap himself and climb out.
The noise of the wind was now louder than he had ever heard it before, and at the same time the cloud was getting ever more dark. The thought registered that he was diving, and he pulled back on the stick. Momentarily, this seemed to bring a respite, and the airspeed indicator needle, which had been wound hard against the upper stop, started to unwind. But within seconds it was hard up against the stop again. He eased forward on the stick, but it made no difference. The strange forces acting on his body had been building up, and now he felt pressed into his seat. He tried moving the stick left a bit, but it seemed to make no difference.
The noise was now incredible, and he was quite sure he had never heard anything so loud before. The invisible hand also pressed on him with a force he had never dreamed possible. His flying suit rattled ferociously, and his face hurt. Wonder spread in his heart:
Am I going to die?
He didn’t want to, but the sheer inevitability of his predicament produced a strange calm behind the madly staring eyes and the gritted teeth.

He still somehow assumed that the ground was below him. When therefore something appeared between his two left wing tips, he found it hard to decipher what it was. It was a brown and grey cloud, which was revolving in a horrible manner. How it could do that puzzled him greatly, and for what seemed a long time he stared at it, aware that everything else was still dark and clammy.
The inspiration that the brown and grey cloud might be the ground registered slowly. From there, the next step tripped along more quickly. He was in a screaming spiral dive, with the ground coming up quickly.
With horizon references now becoming slowly available once more, his visual flying instincts took over, and he rolled the wings level, and started pulling out of the dive. The invisible hand upon him now pressed with truly stunning force, and something flew back off the top wing, disappearing from view over his shoulder. A horrified glance up at the wing showed it moving, and torn fabric rippling in the wind blast. Still he pulled back on the stick. He had no choice. The mental picture flashed through his mind of the wings folding back and coming off…

* * *

Owen, still mouthing obscenities, and hurtling them as mental missiles, closed the gap slowly, but they were coming up from below and behind. They passed through some thin, scudding clouds, and he wished his charge would see them. It seemed to him at least the bloody kid was trying, as he could see he was fish tailing…
“This way, you imbecile! ”
Yes, he could see the head moving around vigorously. The kid was trying. Another minute…
Beside him, Baines rocked his wings, and pointed upwards.
Owen stared hard in the approximate direction, but could see nothing. With all the cloud cover about, and the myriad places to hide, that worried him. He searched fast and furiously, and wondered if Baines had spotted the Rumpler’s top cover coming down.
When he looked back at Jeremy, he noticed a large gray cloud dead ahead of him. Surely the kid had seen it.
Ah. He was staring straight at them now. He must have observed them. Thank goodness. Better late than never.
Maybe there was time to have another go at the Rumpler.
He searched the sky above and behind quickly, and then looked back ahead. He was just in time to see Jeremy’s machine start to bank steep left, and then disappear in cloud. Owen gasped, and searched the cloud bank. It stretched out on both sides, and reached down to almost ground level. When a few seconds later, Jeremy had not reappeared, Owen groaned. Fearing the worst, he glanced at Baines, raising his left hand palm upwards in a helpless gesture. In reply, Baines shook his head slowly.

* * *

Even after he had leveled off, his whole body trembling uncontrollably, Jeremy was horrified at the speed he was traveling at.
The airspeed indicator only seemed to wind back slowly, but now another sensation manifested itself. A strange buffeting, that reminded him of Kershaw’s lessons on slow flying. But… he had plenty of speed.
Looking anxiously at the top wing, Jeremy noticed that the four cabane struts, that stretched from the fuselage up to the center section of the top wing, seemed to be vibrating oddly. Looking more closely, he could see it was only the front two. Daylight could be seen at the top of the starboard one, and he realized it had broken away from its support, and was sticking up uselessly.
The engine was also emitting a strangely metallic, high speed tapping noise, that was getting worse. Somewhere, he remembered, he had heard that engines could overspeed in a steep dive if the throttle was not retarded. He had not touched the throttle, which was still almost wide open. He retarded it slowly, and the horrible rapid tapping changed to a slower beat that was nonetheless just as ominous. On top of everything else, he found that the buffeting was getting worse, and the aircraft kept wanting to dive. He needed both hands on the stick, pulling hard back, to hold it level. Even then, he was slowly descending.
His mind was now past feeling any more terror, and he slowly – wearily – started to look around for a place to land.

* * *

Owen sighed deeply, and calculated his fuel.
What a war! Now what…?
The chances were that the little innocent would either spin out of the bottom of the cloud, well disorientated, and crash into the ground. Or he would enter a spiral dive, with every probability of exceeding the maximum safe speed, and breaking up the airplane. Either way the lad would almost certainly be killed.
He debated giving up. Casting an eye around him, he winced to himself, knowing only too well that all the drifting cloud cover available was ideal ‘ambush country’.
If only basic training could include flying in cloud!
Some of the old aviators had experimented with weights, hanging on strings, suspended beneath the instrument panel. He had tried it himself, with some results. It had given him more confidence when diving into cloud to escape, or when using cloud to creep upon a foe. But the real answer lay in the new turn and slip indicators, of which he had managed to wangle one. But the RFC seemed strangely slow in waking up to the importance of distributing these goodies and promoting their use.
And now…
He decided to descend and have a search below. Cautiously, continually scanning the sky, they descended below cloud, and searched in all directions. He found his eye also roving the ground for sign of smoke or wreckage.
Nothing. He gave up. They were going home. Another new pilot lost. It was sickening and futile.
Damn this war anyway…

* * *

Struggling and jockeying fiercely with the controls, Jeremy found he had little scope for map reading.
He was well lost, and concentrating only on heading west.
Below him was rough terrain, which seemed to offer little hope of a successful landing. His brain was functioning, but a terrible weariness prevailed. The odds against him seemed ridiculous.
He felt numbed with shock, but still reacted with a jump to the silhouette that suddenly appeared alongside.
Staring wild eyed, he recognized a Sopwith Pup, the pilot studying his aircraft. Pennants flying from the wing struts indicated a formation leader, and another aircraft beyond the Pup showed he was not alone.
Jeremy, briefly taking one hand off the stick, pointed to the damaged top wing, and the now sadly sagging cabane strut.
Hey guys! I’ve got a bit of a problem…

The Sopwith pilot nodded, and sweeping ahead, made an unmistakable ‘follow me’ sign. This Jeremy was more than happy to do, and a feeling of immense gratitude flooded through him. A quick look to his right showed another aircraft alongside there, a concerned looking pilot glancing across. A brief wave from the stranger seemed to be meant as encouragement, but Jeremy had no time to wave back. The engine now seemed to be making terminal mechanical noises, and vast amounts of foul smelling oil were streaming back along the fuselage. He was also unable to maintain height, and was slowly descending all the time. A fact that the Sopwith Pup pilots all seemed to appreciate, as they continually adjusted their heights and speeds to his. They crossed a large river that Jeremy had never seen before, and he felt ever more grateful to his kind escorts.
An eternity seemed to pass, and Jeremy was now down to no more than five hundred feet above the ground. A sudden wing rocking from the leader attracted his attention, and he followed the direction of the outstretched arm. At first he failed to recognize it, but then he spotted an airfield, and his relief made him want to scream.
He raised his thumb to the leader, and received an answering gesture of the arm urging him on. With that the Sopwith roared up out of sight, and Jeremy grasped that they were letting him in first and giving him plenty of room.
He dived for the field, noting the layout, and men moving outside the hangars. Rain was now coming down steadily, and judging from the trees, the wind was blowing as much of a gale as before. He crossed a road at a hundred feet, rocking in the turbulence, and for the first time started to feel he was nearly safe…

* * *

Squadron leader Matherson, in the lead Sopwith Pup, could hardly believe his eyes as he closed on the lone SE5.
The fabric ripping off the centre section, the unnatural angle at which a cabane strut dangled, and something odd about the inclination of the top wing, revealed immediately the severity of the pilot’s plight. It seemed a miracle the machine was flying at all.
As he closed the gap, he wondered at the effect on the dynamic stability of the aircraft, and he was not surprised to see the elevators at a crazy angle for straight and level flight. He wondered about the stresses on the structure and the control cables. It was imperative that this machine be landed as soon as possible. The nearest airfield was his own, but the heading the pilot was on would not take him there. Matherson flew alongside, realizing grimly as he did so that the SE5 was staggering along only just above the stall speed. A black oily slick spreading back from the engine told its own story, and Matherson again marveled that the machine was still flying. The pilot was under severe strain, understandably, and seemed to nearly jump out of his skin when he spotted the Sopwith. But he followed readily enough. Whatever fight he had been in, at least he was uninjured. They were ten minutes from the field, and Matherson took odds on the machine getting that far. He decided on odds of three to one against, and mentally wagered a fiver.
It was a job adjusting his speed to the SE5’s, and he had to continually readjust his height, as the stricken pilot obviously had limited power.
Slowly, slowly, they descended. He wondered what his own three pilots were thinking. Doubtless there would be much tongue wagging that night.

It was a relief to wave the guy on, and to climb up out of the way. Although normally everybody just picked their own bit of grass, and piled in together, he decided against it this time. With all that damage, there was no way of knowing which way the SE5 would shoot off once on the ground. He might well lose directional control.
Besides, it would be interesting watching. That upper wing was going to stop flying pretty abruptly. Then what?

He watched the SE5 descend towards the field, and settled back to watch. Behind him, the rest of his flight craned their necks over the sides as well.
He watched even more closely, and then stared in stunned disbelief.
He blasphemed violently, and realized there was nothing he could do.
It was too late…

* * *

The oil had smeared Jeremy’s goggles badly. But it was only when he was approaching the landing that he appreciated how much his vision was obscured. He tore them off, and redoubled his efforts to see his way about on the strange airfield. The slipstream stung his eyes, and they filled with tears. It took him a second or two to blink them away, and by that time he was down to fifty feet.
He was over the field now, and closed the throttle fully. But he seemed to be traveling awfully fast. His gaze darted in and out, from the airspeed indicator to the grass blurring by. Odd. A quick look at the hangars seemed to confirm his impression that he was covering the ground at a great deal of knots. Really odd. Maybe the airspeed indicator was faulty. But that didn’t make sense. He had staggered back with difficulty, and the speedo had seemed okay then. And he had been unwilling to pick up too much speed in the dive out of respect for his tortured upper wing.

So… what the dickens!??

His brain whirled. No doubt about it, he was traveling like a banshee, at ten feet off the ground. He could tell by patches of mud, wheel tracks, bare patches…
Looking ahead, a big hedge on the other side of the airfield was coming up. There was still some distance to go, but… He had to land! He eased forwards on the stick, and the machine obligingly sank towards the ground. It touched down, rattled and vibrated terrifyingly for a second, and then bounced twenty feet in the air! The hedge was now approaching very fast indeed, and Jeremy’s battered brain could take no more.
He froze for precious seconds, watching the hedge hurtle towards him.

No! NO! NOOOO!!

There was no way he was going to descend again, land, and trundle to a stop. He had to go around and try again!
With despairing questions in his mind on the health of his engine, he rammed open the throttle. It was far too much for his exhausted Hispano-Suiza, and a colossal crash accompanied by a hard thump announced catastrophic failure of the crankshaft bearings. Something shiny and long in shape departed the engine cowling, spinning rapidly, and a panel blew away backwards.
Jeremy noticed all this in passing. His immediate problem was that he was at fifteen feet, with no forward thrust, nowhere to go, and descending rapidly.
His mind stagnated completely, and with a staggeringly loud series of crashes, his aircraft plowed its way through most of the hedge. The tail rose up vertically, hesitated on the point of falling over forwards, and then sank back most of the way down.

A minute later, a distraught Jeremy Armstrong, bruised, battered, and covered in mud, watched the first of a formation of four Sopwith Pups glide over the top of his wreck, round out, and come effortlessly to a halt in an astonishingly short ground run.
Wrapping his flying coat closer around himself against the biting cold of the seemingly gale force wind, Jeremy groaned out loud, and the picture of a furious McAllister came to his mind.
He renewed his groaning, and almost wished he were dead.
He soon would be.
Instead of facing into wind, he had landed the wrong way.

Downwind…

F.M.

Jeremy slept badly, and awoke to the sound of aircraft taking off. He peered out the window in time to see four SE5’s climb up into the sky. No one had called him, and he wondered what to do. He was in low spirits by the time he entered the mess for breakfast. Lots of the men seemed to be already there, and he detected secret amusement.
Nobody spoke to him, which made matters worse.
He felt absurdly self conscious and uncomfortable.
When most of the others had finished breakfast, and trooped out, a shadow fell over him. He looked up,to see a lanky human being with a stern face standing over him. The airman introduced himself as Dave Owen, and sat down beside Jeremy.
“I’m your flight leader “, he announced grimly.
Jeremy nodded, feeling unhappy.
“We’ll fly a patrol this afternoon, with Baines as third man. Stay on my right, do as I do, and stay close. If it looks like a scrap, I’ll tell you to beetle off home. I’ll signal like this… ”
Owen jabbed a pointed forefinger at Jeremy, and then motioned with his thumb over his right shoulder.
“Get it? ” Jeremy nodded again.
There was a pause, and Owen studied his charge. Jeremy fidgeted uncomfortably.
“How many hours have you got? “, Owen asked at last.
“Twenty-nine “.
“How many on SE5’s? ”
“Five “.
“Done any target practice? ”
“Very little “.
Owen said nothing. Jeremy plucked up courage, and inquired what had been going on the night before.
Owen looked at him quizzically. “Just a bit of fun. ”
Jeremy asked: “Were you there? ”
Owen took his time answering, and eventually said:
“Yes. Why? ”
Jeremy retreated, muttering: “Oh, nothing. ”
Owen suddenly seemed amused. “You left in a hurry… ”
Jeremy, nonplussed, wished he had left the subject alone.
Owen leaned forward, the amusement gone, the serious expression returned.
“Let me guess, Armstrong. You were just fresh from reporting to McAllister, right? ”
“Well, yes… ”
“And the great Captain gave you a sterling speech on how he expects his officers to behave? ”
“Well…yes, as a matter of fact. ”
Owen looked sardonic. He mimicked McAllister’s accent and mannerisms, including wielding an imaginary cigarette holder. “I like my airmen to be smart, and conduct themselves as gentlemen. Too much riffraff these days in the services… ” He stopped and looked questioningly at Jeremy, who found himself nodding in surprised agreement.
“Yes… he did say something of the sort. ”
Owen laughed dryly, without much humor. Then he leaned forward, until his face was close to Jeremy’s. He spoke slowly, evenly, with barely concealed bitterness.
“Don’t believe the flannel. McAllister is yellow. He was a good flier once. Clobbered six Germans. But that was a long time ago. All he cares about now is his school cricket trophies, and the fastest way of getting promoted to Colonel, so he never risks his neck in battle again. He is a cynical manipulator, who flies as little as he can, as far from the lines as he can… You get the drift? ”
There was a silence, during which Jeremy tried to marshal his thoughts. He managed one syllable:
“I… ”
Then he lapsed into silence.
Owen became brisk.
“Things are tough at the moment, Jeremy. Everybody’s nerves are frayed. The fliers who fight the war find themselves opposed to the politicians who pretend. We lost another man yesterday. Caldshot. Good bloke. Everybody liked him. The party was… a way of getting over him. The war must go on, you know. McAllister and his ilk say so… Can’t let a little thing like death stop the show, can we? ”
Owen had ended on a distinct note of bitterness.
Jeremy shuffled uncomfortably. He decided to change the subject.
“Where are we going on patrol? ”
An aircraft started up outside. The engine ran roughly for a few seconds, and then picked up strongly.
A strange chill swept through the mess. Jeremy shivered. Owen looked out the window. He turned to Jeremy, thoughtfully, and repeated the question:
“Where are we going…? ”
A dry laugh.
“I wish I knew! ”
He stood up, clapped Jeremy on the back, and strode out.

* * *

That afternoon, Jeremy walked out to his aircraft with wooden legs. He felt clumsy and self conscious. Although he felt everybody was observing him, there was in fact little evidence of it. He tried to convince himself they were all too busy to take time off to look at him, but still he felt in a trance. His fingers fumbled with the harness, his breathing was far too fast and shallow, and the voice that shouted ‘contact!’ belonged to somebody else. It sounded croaky, high pitched, and terrified.
For a brief second he was ashamed to realize he hoped the engine wouldn’t start. The Hispano-Suiza however had other ideas, and caught immediately, with exhaust smoke swirling back and stinging his nostrils. He noticed Owen taxying forward, and waved the chocks away.
The three aircraft swung around into the stiff breeze, and Owen and Baines immediately surged forwards, their tails lifting. Jeremy found his throttle arm turned to lead, and for a brief instant the enormity of what was happening quite overwhelmed him. He swallowed hard, gritted his teeth, slammed the throttle open with unnecessary venom, and took off on his first patrol…

* * *

It was cold at twelve thousand feet, and he shivered uncontrollably. But the view was breathtaking. They were heading east. He could see mountains in the distance to the south, and the battle front below stood out clearly. He poured over the side of his cockpit, and studied the criss cross of lines. Roads, fields and a twisting river stood out clearly, a long, long way down. To the west, over Germany, dark clouds stood out against the horizon. The flight had been uneventful, and Jeremy found he had relaxed considerably. He was enjoying himself to a degree, despite the awareness of the dangers of enemy aircraft. He kept a close watch on Owen, but so far had found it easy enough to maintain a loose formation.
The air was quite smooth, and very small adjustments of throttle and controls were all that was required to keep in position. Even with his limited experience, he felt he was performing reasonably well within the formation, and he decided to try and increase his lookout. He searched the sky around them, or tried to, and realized how big a task it actually was. He had heard much talk of the ‘hun in the sun’, and tried hard to squint into the light, but it brought tears to his eyes. Still, he knew the importance, and persevered in trying to keep as sharp a lookout as possible.
After twenty minutes of patrolling up and down the lines, the formation swung back onto a westerly heading, and Owen started a gentle descent.
Fifteen minutes later, they orbited the airfield, and he prepared to land. The overwhelming emotion he felt was relief. His first patrol had almost been an anti-climax. A sense of deliverance flooded through him. He lined up on final approach behind Owen and Baines, and the thought crossed his mind that he had never landed behind two other aircraft before. He studied the airfield looming larger, and wondered if he should break off, and let the others land first. The field however was huge, and seemed wide enough to permit fifty aircraft to land wing tip to wing tip. Besides, it seemed excessively cautious to break off, and he wanted to talk to Owen and Baines. He had a good view of them, and he decided to continue. As they came over the hedge, he carefully spaced himself away from Owen’s SE5. Tension had crept in, and he realized
with a shock that his mouth was dry. Something at the back of his mind told him he should have broken off the approach, but it was too late now. Never mind, they were down through twenty feet.

Airspeed…?!

With a start he became aware that he had been so busy watching Owen’s aircraft, that he had not been monitoring his airspeed. His eyes flew back inside the cockpit. He was going a bit slower than he had thought. Looking out, it seemed as if Owen was a bit close for comfort. He closed the throttle, and out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of the ground approaching rapidly. At the same time, the nose of his aircraft seemed to float up gradually, and started to obscure his view of Owen’s aircraft! Too late he remembered the usual rotation of the aircraft’s attitude on landing, whereby the nose comes up as the aircraft slows down above the runway. The distraction of another aircraft ahead of him was upsetting his usual routine… Instinctively he pushed the stick forward to lower the nose to see. But this meant the wings were no longer attacking the oncoming airflow at the same high angle. At the lower airspeed, the aircraft could no longer maintain height, and it sank abruptly towards the runway. The resultant impact caused Jeremy to wince, and over react. As the aircraft, having contacted the ground so rudely, started the colossal bounce back up, the pilot hauled back on the stick, aggravating the effect. The SE5 kangarood back into the sky, only to loose airspeed quickly, and start down again. Seeing the ground coming up, Jeremy, eyes bulging, hauled back on the stick once more, but the aircraft, low on airspeed and sluggish to respond now, crashed heavily onto the ground. An ominous crack from underneath warned Jeremy of some problem, but he could only note it at the back of his mind, so preoccupied was he with the crisis at hand. They were hurtling skywards once again, when the buffeting, horrible wallowing and the sluggish stick response triggered a vital memory circuit. His mind at last recalled Hendon, and the tutelage of Kershaw, and the warnings of an approaching stall. The memory circuit, having clicked open, caused a rapid and correct analysis of the mess, and he slammed open the throttle. The SE5 staggered away at 20 feet, wallowing horribly, but the thrust from the engine, and the extra airflow from the propeller slipstream over the wings, just combined efforts sufficiently to pull her away from the edge of catastrophe. Another SE5 slid past below and immediately on Jeremy’s left, horribly close, and Jeremy, his heart in his mouth, saw the pilot -Owen- staring up at him. Even with so much else going on, Jeremy noticed the look of open mouthed horror on his section leader’s face, and his spirits fell even further.
He flew a circuit, worrying about the crack he had heard, and set up for another landing. On his own in the sky this time, he fell into the usual routine, and, despite nervous apprehension, the approach was good. He floated above the runway at four to six feet, and then descended slowly towards the grass. The SE5 settled smoothly down, and he was almost beginning to congratulate himself, when another loud crack, distinctly audible with the throttle now closed and the aircraft slowing down, sent horror signals to his brain. The aircraft seemed to slow down normally for a few seconds more, and then abruptly swung hard left, totally ignoring his frantic rudder inputs. The left lower wingtip contacted the ground, he felt as well as saw it, and this slewed the aircraft around further. The propeller also touched the ground, sending up large clods of grassy earth in a fountain. He observed this phenomenon with a sort of detached amazement. His brain searched his Hendon file of experiences with an urgency bordering on the hysterical, but could offer no idea what to do. For a brief instant in time he became an impotent spectator, jaw sagging open in amazement, before a loud crack and the disappearance of the propeller disc and the fountain of earth led to an inescapable conclusion. The SE5 slithered to a halt, and slowly he realized it was all over.

Not quite…

An ominous hiss reached his ears, and the added realization of the possibility of fire actioned him, better late than never, to switch off the fuel cock and kill the mags.
The hiss faded away, and he slowly undid his harness.
He felt utterly disgusted, disappointed, and sick that he had broken the aircraft. Running figures were now approaching the aircraft, but he hardly heeded them. He started to slowly climb out of the cockpit, until a voice bellowed: “Get out, you bloody fool! ” The urgency was unmistakable, and he scrambled clear.

The bellowing voice belonged to Owen, who now approached at the gallop. Behind him the fire tender also approached at speed. Owen’s look said it all. It ranged first over the damaged aircraft, and then over Jeremy. For the anger he obviously felt, he restrained himself reasonably well.
“Well, Mr Armstrong. Is this the way you were taught to land at Hendon? And what were you trying to do to my aircraft? Mate together? Do you know by how little our wing tips missed? ”
Jeremy could only stand and take it. His face told his misery all too clearly.
A mechanic straightened up from underneath the wing, and announced flatly: “The spar’s gone, Sir. Needs a new wing. ”
Owen turned his head to the speaker, and then focussed on Jeremy again.
“Great! Marvelous! “. Owen’s snarl fell like a whip.
Then, swinging around, he started to walk back in the direction of the mess. Over his shoulder he shouted:
“Come on Jeremy. Come with Uncle Owen and we’ll have a little chat. ”
Jeremy threw a last look at his injured SE5, muttered a feeble “Sorry! ” to the assembling engineers, and hurried after his section leader.

* * *

An hour later, a still subdued but happier looking Lieutenant Armstrong was sitting in the mess, listening to Owen.
Owen had been doing a lot of talking, and now he gulped at a glass of brandy with evident relish.
“So you understand where you went wrong, do you? ”
Jeremy nodded earnestly.
Owen leaned back, and regarded him thoughtfully. “Okay “, he announced at last. “Put it all down to experience, and your little machine will be fixed by the morning.
Don’t let it happen again… “
He laughed suddenly, and knocked back the remainder of his drink. He stood up to go, turned away, and then paused. He faced Jeremy again, and asked: “By the way, we’ve talked about your landings. How did you enjoy the patrol? ”
Jeremy nodded. “It was okay. I… tried to keep a good look out. But… ” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess no Huns today. ” He tried to keep the relief out of his voice.
Owen savored the remark. “No Huns today. ” He played it round his mouth, like a wine taster checking an old bottle. Baines had come in, and was busy throwing his coat down, and making himself comfortable.
Owen adressed him. “I say Baines, Lieutenant Armstrong, is disappointed that he saw ‘no Huns today’. What would you say to that, my boy? ” His tone was slightly mocking.
Baines, kicking a chair out of the way, stretched his legs, and folded his hands behind his head.
“That’s funny “, he mused. “I saw five Huns today. A formation of one Rumpler, stooging about looking juicy, and four triplanes lurking topsides. ”
Owen smiled at Jeremy, who looked disconcerted, laughed dryly, and walked out.
Baines, pulling a flying boot off, glanced at Jeremy.
“It was a trap. Old Hun trick. They like to hunt in packs. That’s why we beetled off home. ”

F.M.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on March 6, 2008, 8:02 am